So lets be clear I'm writing this a little disapointed but not without hope. For those believers who read McDonell's first book Twelve there is just about enough here for them to keep the faith. But only just. But why? Well it comes down to a few simple things. McDonell is good, if not great about doing the New York thing. He understands how the city, and its people work. He is very much one of them. Part of the reason why Twelve was such a revelation was that we finally had a new writer who could pick up from where McInerney and Ellis have left off. Where as those writers had moved on to develop their middle aged spread we had no-one who could tell us about the new modern New York and what was really happening now. Part of the appeal of Twelve was that it really had that gritty authenticity of a NYPD Blue style New York. Likewise Twelve's narrator lived in that familiar self absorbed cold Western world that we often inhabit, the tail end of the Gen X dilema, where our place in the world and the value of the lives we lead (and those of our parents) is very much in question. But in The Third Brother McDonell tries to do something different and its an ambition that blows up in his face. The novel starts in Hong Kong and quickly moves on to Thailand where Mike our main protagonist is sent as a journalist. But that's kind of part of the problem. These places are just names, and McDonell's eye for detail just picks up the surface and stereotypes. He talks about the whores, the clubs, the scary motorbike rides of Thailand without really revealing anything new about the place or telling us anything that even a cursory knowledge of the country would reveal. It's all just surface. And unfortunately exactly the same can be said for the characters, they are all just names. Some authors make minimal descriptions an art form, others go to obsessive lengths to conjour a feeling in readers mind about what a character is really like. McDonell doesnt so much write his characters here so much as sketch them. And each sketch is drawn directly from the well of overfamiliar and lazy stereotypes: the drop out traveller, the angst fueled war reporter, the whore with a heart of gold, they all find their place here. So much so that when the first half of the book closes with the death of one of the major characters, this point that should, you're sure, be a major point of reflection and change within the book, is met with mild dis interest.
As you may have guessed the first half of the book is really a disaster, and its to McDonell's credit that the latter stages of the book managed to pull it around and at least make it a little bit interesting. It is therefore no coincidence that as the book and the writing improve so does our character return to the world McDonell actually knows: NYC. But its at times great writing that is pushing against the flow of a meaningless and unconvincing story. It's almost as if McDonell panics half the way through writing the book and realises it's a pile of shit and returns to what he knows and love best. By this point though other than moments of great writing we get a story which amounts to repeated and ever growing amounts of bad news. If the death of a major character in the first half wasnt enough, Mike's parents then die, then his brother and then September the 11th happens. It should I'm sure be some sort of moving spiritual meditation on loss and suffering in the modern world but becasue there's only the thin veneer of an inplausible story you cant help but think "get over it" or see some kind of comedy in the never ending barrage of bleakness.
So having said that will I buy his next book? I think I probably will - but probably only after reading a few reviews first to make sure he hasnt lost his way quite like he does in this one. It's an old adage that you should write what you know. And in some ways I guess that carries a great deal of pressure when you debut is universally lauded. But on this showing more of the same (i.e. NYC stories) is most definitely what's required.
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